


Friday Night At The Fights

by AuthorToBeNamedLater



Series: Keeping Up With The Raptors [11]
Category: Hockey RPF, No Fandom, Original Work, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Sports, Family, Fights, Gen, Hockey, Humor, Minor Injuries, Pittsburgh Penguins, Raptors, Seattle, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorToBeNamedLater/pseuds/AuthorToBeNamedLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sidney Crosby sucks at fighting. Zhenya Rusakov takes it upon himself to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday Night At The Fights

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of this while the Bruins were playing the Penguins in the 2013 ECF. The author has nothing against the Penguins or Crosby. But she does think he's a pretty bad fighter.

Prior to signing with the Seattle Raptors as a free agent after the 2010 season, Zhenya Rusakov had played for the New York Rangers and Philadelphia Flyers. During that 11-year span, the Russian enforcer had gotten several looks at Sidney Crosby.

Crosby was, in Zhenya's opinion, a genuinely nice guy who got a lot of crap for stuff that wasn't his fault. It was easy—and it made interesting media fodder—to go after the first overall draft pick who'd lived up to pretty much all that was expected of him. People called Crosby a wimp, a whiner, a punk, full of himself and other things that they'd know weren't true if they talked to the kid for five minutes. Honestly,  Zhenya felt kind of bad for the Penguins' captain. Crosby had to travel under an alias, rarely left the hotel with the team, and had to deal with media attention everywhere he went. It had to be exhausting.

Yes, Crosby was a good person and a great hockey player. But the poor boy had no idea how to fight.

Skill players weren't supposed to be fighters; Zhenya got that. But even superstars needed to know what to do when the gloves came off. And Crosby, God love him, didn't. People talked about how all his muscle was in his lower body and he'd always be outmatched for that reason alone. They were probably right. And Crosby didn't need to be an enforcer; he just needed to not embarrass himself.

As an ill-advised neutral zone play resulted in Seattle turning over the puck and Crosby (quite accidentally, Zhenya was sure) knocked Zhenya to the ice, Seattle's tough guy decided it was time to give a little aid and comfort to the enemy.

“Hey.” Zhenya picked himself up and dropped his stick and gloves. “Come on, Sid.” He beckoned to Crosby.

Crosby gave Zhenya a harmless shove. “What is this?”

“I'm gonna teach you how to fight.” Zhenya said. “Drop those gloves. Let's go.”

To his credit, Crosby obeyed. “What?”

“I'm teaching you how to fight!”

“Why?”

“Cause you suck at it, that's why! Now start swinging!”

Zhenya had expected a few wimpy blows, just enough for Crosby to get through until the officials got in. Instead the Penguins' captain charged forward, caught Zhenya off balance, and knocked him onto his back.

“That's what I'm talking about!” Zhenya said as he struggled against Crosby's grip. It normally wouldn't have been any kind of contest, but Crosby had the high ground. He even managed to land a punch on Zhenya's lip before the linesmen came over.

“Are you two done?” One of the linesmen said crossly. “Fighting majors for both of you.”

“Hey, thanks, Rusty,” Crosby said as the linesmen escorted them to their respective penalty boxes—or in Zhenya's case, the dressing room so Doc could patch him up.

Zhenya gave the Penguin a thumbs-up. “Anytime, junior!”

.

.

.

On the Penguins' bench, Kris Letang leaned over to Evgeni Malkin. “Did Sid just win a fight?”

Malkin shrugged. This may have meant he didn't know the answer, or that he didn't know enough English to understand the question.

.

.

.

Eddie Riston, Raptors beat writer, sat in the press box on the ninth floor of Boeing Arena surrounded by Pittsburgh and Seattle media personalities, all harrumphing about the preceding fight.

Eddie, a scrawny 30-year-old from Spokane, flipped open his laptop to update the Raptors' live blog.

_Hold the presses and stop the mail, everybody. Sidney Crosby just won a fight._

.

.

.

“You purposely fought Sidney Crosby?” Samantha Richardson asked after Zhenya told her, with no recalcitrance whatsoever, that he was in the trainers' room because he'd purposely gone after Sidney Crosby in order to teach “The Next One” how to fight.

Zhenya looked up at her. “Well I didn't fight him by mistake.”

“Why?” Sam asked.

“Why not?”

“Because he's Sidney Crosby, that's why!” Sam soaked a cotton ball in alcohol.

“Just because he's the league's shiny hood ornament means he doesn't have to defend himself?” Zhenya said with a soft hiss as Sam dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball on the wound. "And he did run into me."

“You don't go picking a fight with the other team's star player!” Sam tossed the cotton ball in the trash.

“I've been at this awhile,” Zhenya said irritably. “I know the rules.”

Sam handed Zhenya a wad of gauze. “Hold this on your lip,” she instructed. She went to the cabinets and got a bottle of Derma-Bond to glue the cut closed.

“Look, he's not always gonna have Matt Cooke around to protect him,” Zhenya said.

“Matt Cooke's a goon,” Sam spat. No Bruins fan had forgiven Matt Cooke for a cheap shot that effectively ended Marc Savard's career back in 2010.

Zhenya left that alone. “Even cops who sit behind a desk need to know how to use a gun. Every hockey player needs to know how to fight.” 

“I'm sure Shanahan's gonna buy that,” Sam said. Brendan Shanahan was the NHL's disciplinarian. “Lie down.”

“Shanahan's not gonna bother with this,” Zhenya said. “Are you my athletic trainer or my mother, anyway?”

Sam smiled. “Maybe I'm both. Now hold still so I can get you back out there.”

.

.

.

Zhenya and Crosby's fight must have given the Penguins the jump they needed, because the visiting team walked out of the Boeing Arena with a 4-2 win.

Coach LaJeunesse gave the Raptors Saturday off since they didn't have another game until Tuesday. Zhenya was immensely grateful, not only because it gave him a full day to spend with his family but because fighting took its toll.

A lot of people didn't realize that once the fight was over, the hockey game went on. The fighter had to keep playing and he might even have to answer the bell again. Fighting was draining, mentally and physically. And it was more draining now than it had been ten years ago.

As morning dawned in the Rusakov house, Zhenya was vaguely aware of sunlight spilling into his bedroom and a dull throb throughout his whole body. Zhenya had received a vicious check as retribution for picking on Crosby. It earned Malkin a boarding call and Zhenya a few bruises.

Zhenya looked at the clock. 7:05am. No practice, nothing to do. _Sleep. Need more sleep._

The bed moved as Zhenya's wife, Natalya, got up. Natalya had never been an early riser before they adopted Alexander and Katiana, but those two children had turned Zhenya's bride into a morning person. Two Russians, naturalized US citizens, living in Seattle with their adopted Ukrainian children. _What a family._

“Talya?” Zhenya asked in Russian. “Can you get me some toast and an Advil?”

Natalya leaned over to kiss her husband's cheek. “Sure. You feel OK?”

Zhenya nodded. “Just really sore.”

Natalya kissed him again. “OK.”

Zhenya heard the door open. “Katia! Why are you up so early?” Natalya asked.

“I want to snuggle with Daddy,” a sleepy eight-year-old voice said.

“No, _sladki_ , Daddy's resting.” Natalya said.

“No, no, it's all right.” Zhenya propped himself up on his elbow and beckoned his daughter closer. “Come here, Katia.”

Katia smiled and jumped onto the bed next to her father. Zhenya wrapped his arms around his little girl and cuddled her close to him. “You sleep OK?” He asked.

Katia nodded. “Do you have a game today?”

“Nope. No game, no practice. I'm here all day.”

Katiana nestled into Zhenya's chest. Zhenya closed his eyes and let himself relax into the mattress, listening to his daughter's easy, even breath. Soon he felt the aching in his body fade as he went back to sleep.

.

.

.

Natalya Valeryevna Rusakova pushed the bedroom door open with her foot, as her hands were full of toast, Advil and water. When she saw her husband sound asleep with Katia in his arms, she stopped. Fortunately neither one of them seemed to have heard her enter.

_I'll just leave this here._ Natalya carefully set her cargo on the nightstand and took a moment to observe Zhenya and Katia before she left the room.

She would never forget the two children she and Zhenya had lost, but a life without Sascha and Katia would be no life at all.


End file.
